


Just The Shoreline Receding

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, Isolation, M/M, Peter Lukas is a creep, Spoilers MAG 123
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 16:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17564354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: Peter Lukas has a special assignment for Martin.





	Just The Shoreline Receding

**Author's Note:**

> This is my wildly fantastical take on What's Going On With Martin at the beginning of season 4, based on the trailer and the little snippets we've got in the first few episodes. No doubt what the show reveals with will be far more painful. Spoilers to MAG 123. 
> 
> Title from Okkervil River's "Lost Coastlines".

 

Peter Lukas comes to the Archives when Martin is alone, a whining hiss of static the only warning before he’s standing right at Martin’s shoulder. This isn’t unusual, but that doesn’t make it any less disconcerting. At least he manages not to start out of his seat this time.

“Mister Lukas!” he says, turning in his chair. “What - uh, what can I do for you?”

Peter smiles at him. He does that a lot; it’s not a comforting expression.

“All alone down here, Martin?” he inquires, as if he didn’t know. As if anyone else in the entire Institute has actually met him. As if there aren’t already whispered rumors flying around as to why _Martin Blackwood_ is the only employee their new boss speaks to in person.

“Basira’s in the library,” says Martin, “And Melanie’s...out.” Martin has no idea where Melanie goes these days. She scarcely talks to him, and when she does she is bristling with resentment for the fact that his plan got Elias imprisoned rather than killed. Martin isn’t sure what to do about that, so he’s trying just to leave it alone, hope it gets better on its own. So far, it isn’t.

“It was you I wanted to speak with, anyway,” says Peter, as if it was a happy coincidence. “I have a special assignment I’d like your help with.”

“Oh?” says Martin, immediately nervous. “What, uh, what kind of assignment?”

“A very important one,” Peter says, taking a step closer; Martin suddenly wishes he was standing up. “Not something I’d trust to just anybody. Things are _unstable_ , here, with Elias away and the Archivist still poorly - have you been to see him recently, by the way?”

“I - yes,” says Martin. Of course he has been, every bloody day, and Peter Lukas knows it. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t. No point denying it.

“Of course. I know you’re very _devoted_.” Peter curls his mouth around the word like he’s savoring it. He’s smiling again. “That’s why I want you for this. I need someone who’s willing to go above and beyond.”

“In, uh, what way?” Martin asks, although he’d rather not. 

“It's not much different than your current role,” Peter says. “Taking statements, doing research. It would just involve a bit more field work, away from the office. It might be good for you, broaden your horizons.”

“Umm,” says Martin. He’s not sure he wants to know what something like Peter Lukas would consider horizon broadening. He’s also not sure he wants any part in the Lukas family’s _special assignments_. And even if it wasn’t probably horrifying, everything in him rebels at the idea of spending time away from London. Away from Jon, if he’s honest.

“It’s a big ask, I know,” Peter says with mock sympathy. “You have a lot of responsibilities here - you’ve started managing the Archives budget, haven’t you?”

Martin knows when he’s being made fun of. He doesn’t say anything, because Peter doesn’t really expect him to, he just likes needling. Or maybe doesn’t even like it, maybe just does it instinctively, like breathing. Peter tilts his head thoughtfully.

“What were their names again, your colleagues?”

“Umm, Basira and Melanie,” says Martin, hesitant. Peter’s smile widens, showing just a hint of canine. The faintest high pitched humming is audible around him. 

“I haven’t met either of them yet, have I?” he muses. “Maybe it’s time I did. One of them might be more available.”

“No!” Martin snaps, louder than he intends to. “No - I just - ” He stops helplessly.

“I understand completely,” Peter says. “You need some time to think about it. Why don’t you take the rest of the day? Weigh up your options. You have the best qualifications for the job, so I do hope you’ll take me up on it.”

Before Martin can say anything more he’s gone, leaving a hissing gap in the air behind him. Martin puts his hands carefully on the desk, grounding himself in the smooth, solid feel of wood beneath his palms, and just breathes for several minutes. 

He knows he’s going to do it, of course. He can only imagine what _qualifications_ Peter Lukas thinks he has for the job, something along the lines of being the Loneliest Person In London or the like. Peter’s been picking at that wound since the first time they met, and it’s fine. Martin can handle it. He just doesn’t want the man turning his attention to the others. Basira has been so locked up inside herself since Daisy died, she doesn’t deserve anything worse happening to her. And Melanie, with all her barely-controlled rage, in close quarters with Peter Lukas doesn’t bear thinking about. So, Martin’s going to do it, because there’s nobody else. 

He goes to the hospital and sits by Jon’s bed, breathing in the smell of citrus cleaning solution. He doesn’t really know why he’s here, except that he does, doesn’t he? Because there’s a tiny, irrational part of Martin, resilient despite all the times it’s been proven wrong, that holds out hope. That thinks maybe Jon will find a way back, if Martin really needs him, and Martin needs him now. It’s a stupid fairytale thought, and Martin might as well try kissing Jon awake, but he can’t help pleading with Jon’s silent form. Can’t help wishing for Jon to save him, somehow.

“ _Please_ , Jon,” he says, despairingly. And then his phone rings, and the screen display is entirely blank, and Martin knows he isn’t going to be saved. He answers the phone, and tells Peter Lukas that he’ll do it, he’ll do whatever Peter needs, as long as Basira and Melanie are safe. As long as Peter leaves them alone. He hangs up, feeling like he’s just signed away his soul.

“Bye, Jon,” he says, and it feels terribly final, somehow. 

Two days later, Martin gets an email from Peter Lukas, directing him to an address in York, where he is to collect a statement from one Susan Lowe about her experience on a hiking trail. There are no further details on the occurrence, or Susan Lowe, or whether he’s even expected. A pervasive sense of unease settles over Martin as he takes the train north. It feels...wrong, to be doing this away from the Archives. He knows Jon collects statements while he’s traveling, as did Gertrude Robinson in her day, but that’s different. Martin’s not the Archivist, he’s just an assistant, and he can’t help feeling like he’s going to get in trouble for this. Though with who - or _what_ \- he couldn’t say. 

The wrongness doesn’t lessen as he walks up to Susan Lowe’s flat. He feels like something is looking over his shoulder, but of course there’s nothing behind him when he glances around. He takes a deep breath, checks his bag again to make sure he has the tape recorder - which of course he does, he’s checked half a dozen times already - and knocks on the door.

Susan Lowe is pleasant enough, though a bit bewildered at his appearance. She hadn’t been expecting him, has never even heard of the Magnus Institute, and Martin stumbles through an account of who he is and what the Institute does. He grasps for an explanation of how he found her, but before he can say anything she asks whether he read her story on the paranormal web forum she posts to. Martin agrees gratefully. 

She seems skeptical, but invites him inside, and agrees to tell her story to the tape recorder. The story is not a long one, but it is familiar: hiking solo for some peace and quiet, but then finding herself alone and isolated, unable to find her way, gray mist and despair sweeping over her until she was sure she’d be lost forever. Susan had been saved by a fall, which had broken her leg but brought her in sight of a group of Italian tourists on another trail. She hasn’t been hiking since, and doesn’t leave the city much these days. She prefers to keep herself around people, and sound. 

“Umm, statement ends,” says Martin, and the tape recorder clicks off. Susan sits back, blinking dampness out of her eyes, and sighs. Martin shivers; it’s cold in here.

“Is that it, then?” she says. 

“More or less,” Martin says. “I’ll - we’ll do some follow up research, of course.”

“No need to let me know if you find anything,” says Susan. “I, uh, I don’t think I really want to know.”

Martin isn’t actually sure if he’s supposed to be doing follow up research. The email hadn’t said anything about it, but, well, it’s what they do, isn’t it? He goes and sits in a café, and pulls up the email Peter Lukas sent him. Of course the sender address line is blank, but Martin hits “reply” anyway, and types that he’s collected the statement, and should he do the usual follow up? He half expects some kind of error message when he sends it, but the email swooshes off as normal, and it’s less than five minutes before he gets a response.

_No need. Well done. See me in my office tomorrow. :)_

Right, because Elias’ office is now officially Peter’s office, although nobody has ever seen him in there. He’s sent a few emails telling people to leave reports and files in there, though, so he must use it sometimes. So Martin will just...drop off the recording, or brief him on it, or whatever, and that’s that. Not too bad, all in all, though he can’t stop himself wondering why Peter Lukas would send _him_ , specifically, to collect a statement relating to the Lonely. 

The smiley face is really disconcerting.

Martin arrives into the office late the next morning. He didn’t sleep well last night, and he can remember that his dreams were unpleasant, glacial things, though he can’t remember any of the details.

“Where did you disappear to yesterday?” Basira asks when he walks in. He sets his bag down and sighs; he hasn’t been looking forward to explaining this.

“Peter Lukas sent me out on a case,” he says, trying to sound as casual as possible. Basira’s eyes go wide. Across the room, he sees Melanie’s head shoot up from the file she’s reading. 

“Hang on,” says Basira. “Peter Lukas, who never shows his face around the Institute - who none of us has even _met_ \- sent you out on a case?”

“Yeah?” Martin says. Melanie is walking over, her mouth drawn in a hard line. 

“You know how dangerous the Lukases are, right?” says Basira. “I mean, you’ve read the statements?”

“I _know_ ,” Martin says, indignant. “I’m not stupid, Basira. It’s not as if I had much of a choice. What am I supposed to say to a - a literal _fear_ monster? No?”

“You should have told us,” Melanie says sharply. “One of us should have gone with you.”

“It’s fine,” says Martin, “It was just recording a statement from this woman - nothing weird happened.”

“Everything that happens around here is weird,” says Melanie, her expression dark. “You shouldn’t - ” She shakes her head. “Forget it. I know you’ll just do what you want, whatever I think.”

She stalks away and disappears behind a row of shelves. Basira looks after her, then sighs and turns back to Martin.

“Just - be careful, Martin,” she says. “If Peter Lukas is interested in you, it can’t be good news.”

“Yeah,” Martin sighs, “I - I’ll try. Thanks, Basira.”

Martin spends nearly an hour replying to emails, and organizing paperwork, and doing everything in his power to delay going to Peter Lukas’ office. Eventually though, he can’t put it off any longer. His feet drag reluctantly on the steps as he makes his way upstairs, the tape recorder tucked under one arm. There is no reply when he knocks on the office door, and after a few moments Martin pushes it open hopefully. Maybe he can just leave the tape recorder on the desk, and - 

There is a faint popping sound as he walks across the threshold, and he sees Peter Lukas sitting behind Elias’ desk, leafing through some papers. The office is cold, far colder than Martin ever remembers it being when Elias was here, and he wonders if Peter’s done something with the heating. 

“Ah, Martin,” Peter says, “I was starting to think you weren’t going to make it.”

“Err, sorry,” says Martin, flustered. “You didn’t say what time - ”

Peter waves him towards a seat and Martin awkwardly takes it, placing the tape recorder on the desk between them. 

“That’s it?” Peter asks, and Martin nods. Peter smiles, and presses the playback button.

Martin knows he recorded his conversation with Susan Lowe. He distinctly remembers pressing record before she started, and switching it off after the statement ended. And he rewound it back to the beginning before he came up here, in case Peter wanted to listen to it. But what’s coming out of the tape is not Susan Lowe’s statement. All that he can hear is hissing, crackling static, like a detuned radio, with a high pitched, warbling whine overlaying it. It sounds remarkably like the distortion he’s heard on tapes featuring Peter Lukas. Martin feels panic starting low in his stomach. If the tape is corrupted - unusable - what will Peter say? What will he _do_? 

He glances anxiously at Peter, who is looking at the tape recorder with an unreadable expression. The static sounds continue playing for close to a minute, before Peter nods in satisfaction and switches the tape off.

“Well done, Martin,” Peter says. He gets to his feet and walks around the desk, behind Martin’s chair. His feet on the wooden floor don’t make any noise. Martin stays where he is, frozen with uncertainty, and then a large hand settles firmly on each of his shoulders. He does jump this time, and hears Peter make a small, amused sound. 

“Umm - ” Martin begins, though he’s not sure where to go from there. Peter’s hands are extremely cold, Martin can feel it all the way through his jumper and shirt. 

“Tell me,” says Peter. “What did she say?”

Martin opens his mouth to say that he can’t remember the details, that’s why he made the recording, but instead he finds himself starting to tell Susan Lowe’s story. Not word for word, perhaps, but he thinks it’s close. As he talks, he can feel the chill from Peter’s hands seeping into his skin, down into his chest, ice running through his veins and into his limbs. He feels oddly detached from it all, as if the voice speaking isn’t quite his own. Eventually the statement ends, and he shuts his mouth, his teeth clicking together numbly.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Peter takes his hands off Martin’s shoulders and claps him cheerfully on the back. Martin shivers, feeling cold all the way down to his bones. The statement is fading rapidly from his mind, he realizes, the details disappearing until he can scarcely recall more than Susan Lowe’s name. Peter returns to his seat on the other side of the desk, and picks up a pen.

“That’ll do for now, Martin,” he says. “I’ll be in touch. Oh, just one more thing. I’m sure it goes without saying, but I prefer to keep this between us. Your colleagues don’t need to know the details.” 

The tone is friendly, but Martin can’t miss the implicit threat. He nods slowly, and stands up, his entire body feeling numb and sluggish. He hears that faint popping again as he leaves the office, like an implosion of air, and when he turns his head Peter Lukas is no longer sitting at the desk. He makes his way back down to the Archives, and begs off early with the excuse that he’s not feeling well. Melanie scowls in a way that says _I told you so_ and Basira tells him to take care and let her know if he’s not going to be in tomorrow. 

He considers going to the hospital, but he can’t bring himself to face Jon’s unmoving form right now. Instead he goes home and curls up in bed, trying to warm himself up with the duvet and a hot water bottle. It takes a long time before he stops feeling cold. He falls asleep eventually, and wakes late in the day, his throat tight with grief although he can’t remember what he dreamed. 

A few days later he gets another email, and goes to Aberdeen to collect a statement from Richard Mackay on being trapped in a sensory deprivation tank. Then to Leeds, for Andrew Stevens’ experience getting lost in a multistory carpark. Then Dublin, for Linda Kielty’s account of a childhood hide-and-seek game gone wrong. And on and on. Statements of people targeted by Isolation, people lost and alone and afraid. Some of them have heard of the Institute - some of them had even considered visiting there to make a statement - and all of them tell their stories with scarcely any prompting. All of them are oddly complacent about how Martin found them, making plausible excuses to themselves before he even has to. Martin isn’t Jon, he can’t compel people, but he thinks there must be some influence of the Beholding that makes people willing to talk, makes it seem normal to them to tell their worst experiences to a complete stranger. 

It’s lonely, traveling. More and more he’s sent to collect several statements in a row from locations around the country or further afield, with no chance to return home. Martin gets used to Travelodges and train stations, to being just another face among all the people traveling alone. 

It gets so it’s almost worse, when he’s back in London. At least when he’s away, he can pretend everything is fine back there. But he feels like a stranger in the Archives these days. Basira’s sympathy has turned to suspicion, he can tell, and Melanie won’t be in the same room with him anymore. He can’t blame them. If one of them were spending all their time on secret tasks for Peter Lukas that they wouldn’t talk about, he’d be suspicious too. Basira, ever the police officer, makes a few attempts to grill him, but he remembers Peter’s words. The less she knows, the safer she is. Eventually she gives up. 

He knows that things are getting bad at the Institute. People have gone missing. Basira and Melanie have been menaced by the other Powers. The Archives have even been attacked. But Martin was in Lyons when the Flesh invaded the building, and in Cardiff when Melanie almost got swallowed by a sudden sinkhole, and in Dorchester when Basira had to fend off a labrador-sized maggot at her own front door. He hasn’t been there when he’s needed, and isn’t needed when he’s there. Melanie and Basira are running the Archives with stoic efficiency, faces drawn tight like soldiers in wartime, the two of them closing ranks against the world. There’s no room for Martin, not anymore. 

The only person who seems to want him around is Peter Lukas, and Martin is sickened to realize that he’s actually started looking forward to being called to Peter’s office. Peter smiles when Martin returns with a new collection of staticky tapes and statements that slide from his thoughts even as he recites them. Peter murmurs in his ear how well he’s done, his hands kneading Martin’s shoulders, and Martin feels a guilty glow of pleasure at the praise. Peter’s touch is still just as chilling, but Martin’s gotten used to it, and when the cold seeps painfully through him, well, at least it’s something to feel.

Peter’s still managed to go completely unseen by anyone else in the building, and Martin knows the rumors are even worse now that he’s not just the only person to have met the man, but is also working directly for him. Nobody will make eye contact with him anymore, treating him with nervous deference or veiled hostility. One day, he walks out of Peter’s office only to have Melanie pounce on him from a side passage, pushing him up against the wall.

“Where did you go?” she demands, gripping his collar fiercely in both hands. 

“What?” Martin shrinks back as far as he can; she looks furious.

“I followed you,” she says through gritted teeth. “It didn’t make any sense, that you’re the only one who sees him. So I followed you, and I watched you walk into an empty office and _vanish_. I even went inside, nobody there. So I’ll ask again - _where did you go?_ ”

“I, uh, I don’t know,” Martin stutters, “I - I didn’t go anywhere, not on purpose anyway. I just - went into the office and spoke to Peter, and then came back out - ”

“ _Peter_ ,” Melanie snarls, disdainful, and Martin knows he’s made a mistake. She shakes him by the collar once, angrily, then releases him. 

“You should stay away from us,” she says, and stalks off down the corridor. Martin remains leaning against the wall for a while, his heart pounding. He doesn’t go back down to the Archives until he’s sure Melanie’s left for the day. 

Whenever he’s in London, Martin thinks about visiting Jon, and then makes some excuse as to why it’s not the right time. He has a cold, shouldn’t bring that into the hospital. He has too much work to catch up on, no time today. He’s really tired, he’ll visit tomorrow. The fact is he’s afraid to visit, because he thinks that seeing Jon, silent and still, will only make him feel more lonely. He’s barely keeping his head above the waves of hopelessness right now, he doesn’t think he can stand another reminder of how bad things are. 

“I have some travel coming up,” Peter tells him one day, after he’s delivered the statement of Natasha Groening on attending her ex-girlfriend's wedding. “I need you to come with me.”

“Oh, right,” says Martin, his heart dropping into his stomach. This is new, which is probably not good. So far all the work Martin’s done has been alone, mostly collecting statements, with the occasional side trip to pick up some unspecified object from an antiques shop or book dealer. Martin’s never looked at the items, because he’s read too many statements featuring Juergen Leitner or Mikaele Salesa, and he’s not suicidal. At least he knows that much. 

“Pack warm,” says Peter, cheerfully, “We’re going north.” 

The following week is not the worst of Martin’s life. That honor goes to the second week of his imprisonment by Jane Prentiss, when he had pretty much entirely given up hope of rescue and was just waiting for the food to run out. It isn’t good, though. 

The crew of the _White Goddess_ are taciturn and sullen, and pay as much attention to Martin as they might to a piece of useless cargo the captain’s brought aboard. Which, well, yes. Martin spends his days in the small cabin he’s been assigned, or out on the deck, staring out across the dull gray ocean, watching his breath fog in the cold air. There are a dozen or so wooden crates stacked haphazardly on the deck, which smell distressingly like blood and which Martin is sure move about, though he never sees anyone touch them. 

They don’t see any other ships on their course. Not even a seabird’s flight breaks the bleak monotony, nothing but dark waves from horizon to horizon. The sense of oppressive loneliness is not unexpected, or even unusual these days, but its force still takes Martin by surprise, bearing down on him like a physical weight. 

There are times he wakes in the night and thinks he’s the only person left on the ship, abandoned to isolation or some far less metaphysical fate; he’s read about the _Tundra_. And even during the day when the crew are in sight, the insidious fear keeps crawling up his spine, that they’re never actually going to reach their destination. That Peter Lukas has brought them out here to feed his hungry god, and they are already lost. 

Four days in they make port somewhere - in Norway, Martin thinks - and he watches the crew nervously unloading the stinking crates onto the dock as Peter Lukas talks to an elderly woman with a pinched face and iron gray hair. She surveys the crates with a magisterial expression, then hands Peter a cloth-wrapped bundle, apparently satisfied. He tucks it immediately into his coat, nods, and disappears below deck. 

Later that evening, Martin is summoned to the captain’s cabin. The familiar faint popping sounds in his ears as he walks inside, and the cabin is cold enough to raise goosebumps on Martin’s skin. Peter is sitting on the narrow bed, looking pleased with himself. 

“I have a statement for you, Martin,” says Peter. Martin looks around. Sure enough, there is a tape recorder sitting on a small table in the corner, but he doesn’t see any files or other paperwork. Is he supposed to take a statement from someone on board?

“My statement,” Peter clarifies, as if he’s read Martin’s thoughts. Which he hasn’t of course. He’s not Elias. Martin feels his stomach knot sickeningly at the prospect of taking a statement from Peter Lukas, all the horrifying things he’s undoubtedly done, the horrifying thing that he _is_. 

“I, uh, I’m not sure - ” Martin begins, and Peter smiles. 

“Of course you’re not,” he says. “You never are, are you? But I’m sure, so I’m going to give you a statement and you’re going to record it. Understand?”

Martin nods silently, and sits down at the table. The tape recorder clicks on without intervention, so it seems that this is...okay? Peter starts to talk, and the story is a mundane one, about how he finally located an object his family needs very much - an old mirror - and made contact with the current owner. How he negotiated a price, though the payment terms were challenging, and then boarded the _White Goddess_ to collect his prize. How the voyage passed uneventfully, other than one of his crew taking too close an interest in the cargo, and being consumed. How he made the trade on the docks of Brevik. 

He ends by describing how he had summoned the Archival assistant to his cabin to make a statement, because he cannot have this information getting back to the Eye. They cannot have Elias interfering, when they are finally so close to greatness. He stops talking then, and smiles, broad and inhuman.

“That’s...quite refreshing,” he says. Martin can’t speak, his mouth dry and useless, just stares at him.

“Did you have a question, Martin?” Peter asks. 

“I, umm - what did you mean...greatness? ” Martin manages to say, his voice hoarse. Peter smiles wider, and gets to his feet. Martin cannot move. 

“I meant the ascendancy of the Lonely, of course,” he says, conversationally. “Elias thinks he will rewrite the world in the image of his Eye, but we don’t intend to let that happen. That’s why I need you, Martin. You’re so lonely, aren’t you? Absolutely perfect. You collect the statements, like a good little assistant, and then you deliver them into our silent Isolation, so that the Eye can never, ever see them.”

He walks around behind Martin, and Martin feels hands on his shoulders, colder than ever. He shudders. Peter leans in close, and presses his mouth close to Martin’s ear. His breath is cool, and he smells of salt and ice.

“And the best part,” he murmurs, “Is that you will never, ever remember enough to help them, your _colleagues_. Your Archivist.” 

Peter’s teeth close down on his earlobe, and Martin gasps. Peter’s hands slide from his shoulders down along his chest and abdomen to his groin, roughly palming his dick through his trousers, leaving icy trails behind even as heat stirs in Martin’s belly against his will. Then Peter’s hands and mouth move away, and Peter says:

“Statement ends.” 

The tape recorder clicks off, and then Peter’s hands land on Martin’s shoulders again. Martin is trembling, his head spinning. He needs to remember this. He doesn’t know how, but this of all things he _has_ to remember. He needs to warn Melanie and Basira that - that - well he doesn’t know exactly, but the Lukases are planning something _bad_. Peter laughs softly. 

“Tell me Martin,” he says. “Tell me what I said.”

Martin tries to clamp his mouth shut, because if he doesn’t say the words he can’t _lose_ them, but he can’t stop himself. His mouth opens, and the story comes tumbling out, and he can feel it disappearing even as he tells it, slipping between his neurons and swallowed up by the gray fog of Isolation, lost from view. The perfect method for Peter to hide what he’s doing from Elias, to stop the Eye seeing the Lonely.  Gather the knowledge in its purest form, filtered through the Beholding, and then feed it into his god’s lonely domain. Write over it with static, blank, emptiness. Martin desperately tries to grasp at it - any of it - his eyes stinging painfully and his breath coming shallow, but he can’t, he can’t, and it’s gone. 

Martin blinks a few times, trying to figure out what he was trying to remember. He was just repeating Peter’s statement, right? Which was...about this trip, he thinks. Of course he can’t remember the details, they never stick, but he remembers the trip clearly. They made port...somewhere, and he thinks Peter met with someone, but the person’s face eludes him. He frowns.

“There was a woman - ” he says.

“Don’t worry about her,” Peter says kindly. “We won’t hear from her again. You’ve done really well, Martin.” 

One hand squeezes Martin’s shoulder, halfway between caressing and cruel. The other brushes over his jaw, cold against Martin’s skin, and he shivers. He can smell salt and ice.

That night Martin lies in his narrow berth, exhausted but unable to sleep. Something is nagging at the back of his mind, like he’s forgotten to turn the iron off, but he has no idea what it is. He keeps thinking of how Peter’s fingers had touched his jaw, how Peter’s teeth had grazed his ear - except that’s not right, is it? That didn’t happen. The scent of cold ocean lingers in Martin’s memory, the strength of Peter’s hands as they kneaded his shoulders, his voice, warm in all the ways the rest of him was not, _you’ve done really well._

Peter Lukas is a monster, and Martin loathes himself as he slides a hand into his underwear and grasps his dick, hard and aching from the memory of Peter’s gentle, insidious touch. It doesn’t take long for him to come, and his groan is lost deep in his throat.

They arrive back at the docks of Immingham on the eighth day, and Martin feels his chest tighten anxiously. They’re home, which means going back to being unwanted in the Archives, and feeling guilty about not visiting Jon, and writing more pointless letters to his mum that will just come back unopened. At least for the last week he didn’t have to think about that. Didn’t have to think about anything much at all. As if summoned by his distress, Peter steps up to the railing beside him. He looks every inch the sea captain, in a peacoat and thick woolen jumper, and Martin wonders if this whole persona is just a costume for him, a mask for the monster beneath. 

“Good job this week, Martin,” Peter says. “You’ve really taken to this.”

Whether he means sea travel, or recording weird, blank statements, or being horribly lonely, Martin doesn’t know. Possibly all three. 

“I won’t need you on any cases for the next couple of weeks,” Peter continues, “So you can get a bit of downtime. I’m sure you have plenty to catch up on, people to see and all?”

Martin doesn’t answer that, because he’s quite sure Peter knows exactly how much he’s looking forward to spending time at home. The acid taste of fear rises in his throat. Peter gives him a broad smile, and claps him on the back, and then he’s gone so suddenly that Martin questions if he was there in the first place.

When Martin gets home his flat is cold and all the food in his fridge smells terrible. He scarcely sleeps, and when he does, he dreams the icy weight of hands on his shoulders, though when he turns his head he is alone. In his dream, the cold soaks into his skin, and runs through his veins, pleasant numbness spreading through his entire body. 

The following day he goes into the Archives, dread sitting low in his stomach. His desk is stacked with file boxes that are smudged with soot and scorch marks. Apparently he missed some new catastrophe while he was away. He carves out a small space to sit at. Basira greets him neutrally, doesn’t ask where he’s been for the past week or how long he’s in for. She’s learned better, he knows, but part of him still wishes she would. Part of him wishes she’d at least treat him with suspicion rather than completely blanking him out. 

He spends the morning recording a statement - related to the Corruption, which makes a change from his usual workload - before Basira informs him that she already did that one last week, and no, she doesn’t need any help with the follow up research, she has it under control. He doesn’t see more than the back of Melanie’s head the entire day, and he leaves early, feeling useless and hollow. He intends to go to the hospital, really he does, but he can’t. He would give anything to see Jon’s face, even as it is now, slack and lifeless, but he just...can’t.

The next couple of weeks are a sinkhole of helpless despair. Martin finds himself remembering the slow, rolling movement of the ship beneath his feet, the simplicity and silence of the open ocean, perversely missing it. His dreams torment him, full of Peter Lukas’ cold, cruel fingers and mocking eyes, and he wakes trembling and aroused, masturbates feeling sick with guilt, and lies in the dark detesting himself. 

At the end of two weeks, he gets an email directing him to collect a statement in the town of Whitby. Martin feels a rush of relief go through him, and he knows it’s not right, but nothing is anymore. He doesn’t bother telling Basira he’s leaving. It doesn’t matter. He takes the train to Yorkshire, and nobody looks at him. Nobody suspects or despises him, nobody cares about him at all. He might as well be entirely alone in the world, and even as grief and loneliness tear through his chest, he also feels free. 

He takes the statement from Jessica Sullivan, who got lost on the moors, and then checks into a little B&B overlooking the ocean. It wouldn’t quite be too late for him to take the train back tonight, but he’s not exactly in any rush to get back to London, and he hasn’t had any of his expense reports questioned since he started working for Peter Lukas directly. He takes a walk out on the cliffside as the sun sinks below the horizon. Caught between gray ocean and bleak moorland, there is a desolate feel to this place, wind tossed and liminal. Martin stands on the cliff for a long time, watching the waves, and feeling the breeze that tries to tug him forward, off the edge.

He walks back to the B&B, and somehow he isn’t even surprised when his ears pop at the door to his room. Peter Lukas is sitting on the windowsill, looking out towards the ocean. He’s dressed in his sea captain outfit again, and the more Martin looks at it, the more it looks like a costume, though a well worn one. Peter gives him a friendly smile as he enters. The room is colder than it had been when Martin left, far too cold.

“What are you doing here?” Martin asks bluntly. He is too tired and hopeless to be afraid of Peter right now. If Peter kills him, or banishes him to some plane of eternal loneliness, well, at least it will be an end to this particular limbo. 

“Text messages and emails are so impersonal,” Peter says cheerily. “I wanted to tell you this news _personally_. The Archivist is awake.”

A flood of emotion pours through Martin, so overpowering that he feels his legs going weak, and he sits down hard on the bed. His heart is pounding suddenly. His breath catches in his throat.

“Jon - ” he gasps, and can’t get anything else out. Jon is awake. Jon is _alive_.

“I think that’s his name, yes,” Peter remarks. Martin’s not sure he isn’t being genuine. 

“Is he - okay?” Martin asks. It’s been six months. People don’t just come out of comas after six months, he knows, there’s all sorts of brain damage and muscle atrophy and, and other things, even if it’s a normal coma. Which this...wasn’t. 

“Well he’s taking tomorrow off, I believe,” says Peter, “But he should be back in the Archives the day after, so not too bad all considered.”

Martin concentrates on breathing, because he seems to have forgotten how. Jon’s awake, and apparently perfectly fine, and he’s going to be back in the Archives the day after tomorrow! And then...then he’s going to know that Martin’s been working for Peter Lukas. He’ll understand though, won’t he? He didn’t have a choice, it was to keep Basira and Melanie safe. Jon will understand, and Jon will come up with a plan, a way out of this for Martin. He _will_ understand, right? 

“I’ll talk to him about your assignment, of course,” Peter continues. “He is your direct supervisor, but I’m sure he’ll understand how important it is. For the Institute.”

“I - right,” says Martin, his heart sinking, the sudden hope that had buoyed it up draining away. Peter tilts his head with a look of concern that is almost convincing.

“Unless you’d prefer to go back to your normal duties? You only have to say, Martin. I’m not a slave driver. I can ask the Archivist to assign someone else - ”

“No, no it’s - I’m fine,” Martin says hastily. Stupid, of course, to think that all his problems would be solved because Jon’s back. More of that fairytale thinking, and he should know better than that. Jon’s not a dashing hero or a knight in shining armor. He can’t save Martin, any more than he could save Sasha or Tim, any more than any of them can save themselves. Peter stands up, claps his hands together with a muffled sound.

“Delighted to hear it!” he says. “You’ve been a great asset to me, Martin, I’d hate to lose you.” 

Martin shudders at the way the word _lose_ sounds in Peter’s mouth, like a terrible promise. 

“Is there, uh, anything else?” he asks. He hopes not, because what he would really like to do is climb into the too soft bed and wrap himself in as many blankets as possible and try not to think about anything. Definitely not about the fact that he’ll have to face Jon in the Archives, and what is Martin even going to say to him? What can he possibly say?

“Well, since I’m here we might as well take care of that latest statement,” Peter says. “Unless it’s too much trouble?”

“No, it’s fine,” Martin says wearily. He has nothing left in him to fight this, and he knows that part of him wants it, anyway. The part that craves Peter Lukas’ approval, that likes the slow slide of knowledge from his memory into Peter’s emptiness, that is thankful for the loss of control, of responsibility, of self. The part that wakes him in the night, aroused at the memory of Peter’s cold fingers. 

Martin sits in the only chair with Peter’s hands heavy and caressing on his shoulders, and starts talking, Jessica Sullivan’s fear and hopelessness falling from his lips and coursing through his chest. The familiar cold seeps through his shirt and into his skin, and he finds himself leaning into it, hating himself as he does. The last of the statement drains from Martin’s memory, and Peter leans close to him, that faint scent of sea air and ice. 

“You really are perfect,” Peter murmurs, breath frigid against his ear, and Martin shivers. He does not pull away, stops breathing entirely as Peter’s cold lips press to his neck. He feels somehow that he’s been waiting for this, like it isn’t even a surprise. Peter’s stubble scratches at the tender skin, and Martin tips his head to let it. Peter’s teeth scrape across his throat, nipping and then biting down hard, and Martin hears himself make a low whining sound as his skin sears hot beneath Peter’s teeth. Peter gives a soft laugh and then his tongue slides over the bite, its chill soothing the pain. 

Peter’s hands slide from Martin’s shoulders down his chest, their cold goosebumping his skin beneath his thin shirt. They continue moving down across Martin’s belly to his groin, where his dick is already hardening, arousal coiling irresistibly, shamefully, through him. Peter’s hand circles his erection through the fabric, and Peter hums against his throat, kisses up along his jaw. Martin turns his head, and Peter’s cold tongue presses into his mouth, tasting of salt. Martin groans as Peter frees his dick and wraps his hand around it fully. 

Martin is lost, flung to the tide. Peter’s tongue is pillaging his mouth, running over his teeth and into the back of his throat. Peter’s fingers wrapped tight around his dick, moving in firm, merciless strokes. Martin’s dick is throbbing with heat and cold, his entire body thrumming under Peter’s touch. Martin hates this, hates himself for wanting it, hates the monster called Peter Lukas that has crawled its way into his soul. His eyes are stinging with anger and grief. 

Suddenly Peter’s hand stills, his mouth retreating. Martin whines, pushing his hips up into Peter’s grip, hating himself even more as he does. 

“None of that,” Peter says, and his fingers pinch painfully on Martin’s aching dick. Martin gasps, flinching, and Peter kisses his jaw affectionately. 

“Do you want me to leave you alone, Martin?” he whispers into Martin’s ear. “I will, if you ask me to.”

“No,” Martin hears himself whimper, pathetic and desperate,. “Please. Don’t - don’t leave me.” Tears are leaking from the corners of his eyes now, and he can’t tell if it’s from pain or pleasure or humiliation. Peter makes a low, pleased sound and starts moving his hand again, stroking Martin’s dick roughly. Martin closes his eyes and lets the cold drown him, moans low and desperate as his dick spurts over Peter’s fingers. 

He sits there panting and shuddering as Peter wipes his hand clean on Martin’s shirt, then straightens up and walks over to the door. Peter looks entirely unruffled.

“I’m captaining the _Rip Tide_ to Mombasa tomorrow,” he says conversationally. “Six weeks out and back. I could use an assistant - unless you’d prefer to be at the Institute?”

Six weeks, Martin thinks. Six weeks away from the Archives, away from everything but the blank canvas of ocean, beholden to nothing but Peter Lukas’ cold hands on his shoulders. 

Six weeks before he sees Jon, he thinks, his heart aching.

Six weeks before Jon sees what he’s become. And maybe Martin can’t save himself, but he can make sure he’s the only one lost. He can keep the rest of them safe. It's what Jon would do, and maybe someday Jon will know, and be proud of him. 

Martin pictures himself on a ship, the shoreline receding behind him. Imagines disappearing into the freezing distance, never to be seen again. He lets that feeling hollow him out, lets the cold rush in, and abandons all hope. 

“I’m with you,” he says, and Peter Lukas smiles.  
  



End file.
